


Murder Tie Appreciation Fic

by MyDearStalker



Category: Hannibal (TV)
Genre: BDSM, F/M, Light Bondage, domme!bedelia
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-03-18
Updated: 2015-03-18
Packaged: 2018-03-18 11:24:04
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,205
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3567875
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MyDearStalker/pseuds/MyDearStalker
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>‘We’re not going to pretend, any more, you and I.  We’re going to break through this delusion of yours, that you’re in any way in control when I’m present. Understand that you are nothing. While I’m here, you are mine. You are whatever I make you.’</p><p>An alternate for Sakizuki. Bedelia finds uses for Hannibal's murder tie.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Murder Tie Appreciation Fic

‘We don’t have a next session. I am no longer your therapist.’

She’s still as a painting. She doesn’t elaborate. He’s not an idiot.

Anger spreads across his face like a trail of lit gunpowder, gone just as fast. He steps toward her, and she backs away, suppressing a smile of victory.

He comes to her office cocky. Pretends as if he has a choice, as if she’s forced to bear his company.

She knows delusion when she sees it. He can’t help himself, thinks her knowledge of who he is, what he’s capable of, will blind her to his addiction. It doesn’t.

‘I believe,’ she breathes, each word crisp like a blast of icy wind, ‘that I have reached the limit of my efficacy.’

Let him feel it, the rejection, a stinging slap to his pride. He paces in her direction, cruel lips pouting like a school boy’s. Let him feel the full weight of her refusal, how colourless, desperate, his world will be without her now. She steps back out of his reach with a dancer’s accuracy.

‘May I ask why?’

It’s all she needs to know she has him. _Oh, it’s unpleasant for you, isn’t it?_ She thinks to herself. _This lack of control._

She smiles. It’s thin. He’s close enough to touch, more than a head taller than her. That won’t matter. She reaches a hand out to straighten his tie.

‘No.’ she says lightly, her eyes passing over his eyes, lips, throat, hungrily. ‘You may not.’

She sees him swallow. She bends, places her bag down by her feet. She’ll be gentle with him, to start, anything sudden and he might thrash, buck, break under her grip.

‘Will you pass me my keys, Hannibal?’ she asks slowly, her voice on the threshold of teasing. The muscles in his jaw clench. She holds his gaze. He’ll bend, or he won’t. But if he doesn’t, she’ll walk. And he knows it.

He stares into her eyes as he kneels on the floor. He stays there for a beat. Looking up at her. Deciding. She doesn’t flinch. He reaches a hand toward her bag.

She kicks it away.

He freezes, hand stretched out, arrested in mid-air. He closes his eyes, composing himself, perhaps. He's revealed, vulnerable. She reaches out a hand, strokes a lock of hair behind his ear. Looks down her nose at him, sovereign.

She clicks her tongue. ‘Oh, Doctor.’

* * *

 

He could snap her like a twig, twist her neck, squeeze the breath out of her, but then she’d be gone.

He could force her, spread her legs, keep her here in his basement, but that’s not what he wants. He wants her, wholly.

His want binds him tighter than any rope.

She moves forward and presses her pelvis lightly against his jaw, fingers tucking a lock of hair behind his ear. He leans his head against her. He can smell the laundry powder on her skirt, her perfume. He breathes it in.

Her cold hand, smooth, moves to cup his chin. With strong movements, his tie is removed. He winces as if he’s been stabbed. He feels the silk cover his eyes, suddenly blind. It’s easier this way, and perhaps she knows that, easier for him to let go.

In an instant she’s gone, and he’s bereft. He hears her heels click on the wood of his floor, can tell the direction, but that’s all. There’s silence as he stays where she’s left him, chest rising and falling. It stretches on for an eternity. He hears a rustle of fabric, picks up a waft of Chanel and feminine musk. It sets him on fire. Then, a word.

‘Here.’

Ears pricked like an animal’s, he crawls toward her voice, feline. He finds her feet near the leather of his office armchair, runs his palms up her ankles, her smooth calves, drags his lips over the arch of her foot. She’s here. She’ll stay, and for that he’ll give her all of him.

* * *

 

 

She strips, clothes draped over the desk, covering his sketches. She leaves her slip on, and her heels, and sits in the armchair, beckoning him with her voice. He crawls like an animal toward her and heat rises between her legs, seeing something so fierce tamed by base need. His hands find her, and she lets him stroke, touch, worship at her feet. Head tilted over the back of the chair. Lips parted.

Impassioned, she leans forward, rips off his makeshift blindfold, wrapping it around her knuckles like a bandage. He flinches at the light.

His head dips between her thighs, kissing gently. She knows what he wants, but he can’t have it yet. She places a heeled foot on his shoulder, letting him glimpse between her legs, and holds him away.

‘Look at you.’ She gloats. ‘Is this what you imagined, Hannibal? All that time you sat across from me in therapy, were you really sitting at my feet? So incredibly helpless in your need?’ The last sentenced is hissed slowly through her teeth as her pulse rises. Keeping her foot on his shoulder, she rises from the chair, pushing him backward with a vicious shove, until she’s standing, heel digging into his shoulder, tie wrapped around her hand. He can’t look at her, his head is turned away, face flushed.

She swoops down until she straddles his chest, slip stretching. She turns his head to meet her gaze.

‘Strip.’

Her voice is soft. He will hear her and obey, or he won’t. And regret it.

* * *

 

 

He’s incandescent, and, like fire, must consume. She sits on his chest and his arms are suddenly around her small waist, heedless of her command. He intends to rise, press his mouth against hers, hungry. A sudden pain convinces him otherwise.

She has him by the ear. Twisting it cruelly, as if he’s a boy again, caught reading under the covers at his boarding school. It hurts, not enough to hold him, but enough to wake him to the reality of his situation. Any attempt to take back control would extinguish her like a candle. So he merely winces, arms falling down by his sides, teeth gritted.

She stands, drags him up by the ear, and he’s bent almost double down by her shoulder. His head is dragged ungently to her mouth.

‘Give me your hands.’

He offers them, defeated. His tie is bound around his wrists, expertly, leaving no room for him to wriggle out. And he’s not going to _break_ it. That tie is special to him.

She lifts his bound wrists by a finger.

‘If they could see you now, my pet.’ She raises the binding to her eye level, examining. ‘All those poor men and women whose last image was you, bending over them, wearing this small piece of fabric.’

She drags him to the hall, finger hooked into his binding, and raises his hands, hanging them on the coat hook, tying them again firmly. She presses her body against his back and he tries to hide his rapid breathing. He fails.

Her hand snakes around his waist, rising up to grab at his chest. She whispers in his ear, lips tickling.

‘I asked you to strip, and Hannibal, you should always do what the doctor orders.’

Her fingers dig between his shirt buttons and she pulls, making them burst all over the floor. He’s speechless. He liked that shirt. When she pulls a blade out from god knows where, that’s when he struggles.

‘No.’

It slips under his suit jacket arms, slitting the threads.

‘I beg your pardon?’ she threatens.

‘Not my suit, Bedelia.’

‘You had a chance to save your clothing.’

The knife works quickly, rendering him topless, expensive cloth in pieces on the floor.

‘ _Please._ ’

‘That word suits you.’

The knife runs bluntly between his legs. He jerks involuntarily, needing more than the briefest of touches.

‘Bedelia enough, stop. Please. I can remove them.’

She ignores him, slices his belt loops. He realises she’s buying time, figures it’s because she likes it when he begs. He complies, hoping to save his tailoring.

‘Please.’ Emphatic this time, hands struggling on the coat hook. ‘Please stop.’ His deep voice is no less low, but many times more desperate.

‘You sound delicious when you beg. I want to hear more if it, soon.’

And just like that, his trousers are gone. He’s naked. Need obvious. Shamed.

 

* * *

 

He is magnificent naked. She wants him like this all the time, desperate for her, a panting animal. She slides her hands to his hips, holds them in place. His head is hung low. She scratches her nails down his muscled back, making him cry out. She grips him in one hand, holds him still there, feeling him pulse. Oh, will she torture him. She will make him work for every second of his release.

Her hand strokes, and he makes a frustrated noise.

‘We’re not going to pretend, any more, you and I.  We’re going to break through this delusion of yours, that you’re in any way in control when I’m present. Understand that you are nothing. While I’m here, you are mine. You are whatever I make you.’

She kisses his back gently, hand stroking him steadily, feeling him swell in her palm. His hips roll, trying to gain friction. She pulls away, a thin membrane of air and fabric between her skin and his. Her nose dips down by her neck, and pointedly, she inhales.

 

* * *

 

His desperation is so strong it almost calms him. Her words reverberate in his skull. His cock throbs from her touch. He can’t bear this, but knows he will.

Suddenly his hands are released and he’s spun around. Her body is pressed against his, her teeth on his neck. He moans. He doesn’t dare touch her. He knows how this works. Again, her lips in his ear.

‘How does it feel to be prey?’

He doesn’t answer, only falls to his knees. He needs her, the only woman who has ever seen him. Seen him and content to take all of him. With persuasion she’s lifted the burden of his ego from his shoulders and he worships her for it. He looks up into her eyes.

‘Let me taste you.’ He calls her a sweet name in a foreign tongue. He knows how that thrills her, and he’s rewarded with the first broad smile of the night. She slips the tie around his neck, and using it as a leash, drags him naked back into the room. Sitting in his chair, she lifts him by the neck, till he’s positioned between her legs, another firm hand in his hair, holding him in place.

His hands run up her smooth thighs, parting them. His breath reaches her first and she relaxes back with a small moan. His lips are next, framing her folds, and he runs his tongue thinly, accurately, through her before lapping like an animal. A chuckle bubbles in her throat, deepened by the angle of her neck. He licks, tasting her, wetting her, kissing her entrance, sucking on her clit. He is feverish, feasting on her as if starving, as if her pleasure was his world.

The tie around his neck tightens, he fights every instinct in his body to please her, straining against the fabric to reach his tongue deeply inside her, thrusting, cock thick and useless between his legs. He feels her tighten around him, increases his pace, licking her clean.

 

* * *

 

His tongue is wonderful, like everything about him, from his voice to his hands. She tightens her grip on the scarf, constricting his air, wanting to see him fight his instinct for survival just to please her. She gives herself over to warm pleasure. She can feel his pulse through the fabric of the tie.

‘Mine.’ She breathes, a hand in his hair. She arches her back, her orgasm tearing through her, spasming under his ceaseless tongue. She holds his head between her, crying out, releasing him only when she falls back in the chair, glowing with satisfaction. He rests his head on her thigh, and she strokes his hair lazily.

He murmurs, lips brushing against tender skin.

‘Are you giving me a referral?’

The cheek, she thinks, smiling inwardly.

‘No. I am simply ending our…patient/psychiatrist relationship.’

He kisses up her thigh, again, between her legs, the valley of her breasts, her neck.

She sighs in pleasure. ‘You are dangerous, Hannibal Lecter.’

Hands part her, eager. She puts a hand his chest to stop him. He doesn’t deserve it. Not yet. She looks him in the eye, and seeing her refusal, he growls. She takes the tie, settles it around his neck. She rises, gathers her clothes, and begins to change. He watches her hungrily. She’ll satisfy him, but he’ll work for it, earn it many times over. She'll hear him beg, not the pathetic pleading he attempted earlier. She'll tease him with her mouth, milk him dry, gather his skin under her nails. But later. There's world enough and time.

Clothed, she trails past him, kneeling naked on his own floor.

Hand on the door, she looks back at him. She smiles.

‘I’ll see myself out.’

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 


End file.
